If Jett had known that his "promotion" involved becoming the personal secretary to a woman who could turn him into a fine mist with a sneeze, he might have put more effort into his previous life's application for dental insurance. Lyra Vane's private study was less of an office and more of a high-security bunker draped in expensive silk and the lingering scent of "don't even think about it."
Jett sat at a secondary desk, his hands moving through a mountain of scrolls with the practiced indifference of a man who had once spent forty hours a week filing quarterly tax returns. To any passing servant, he looked like a man drowning in paperwork. To Jett, he was a kid in a candy store where the candy was made of blackmail and strategic leverage.
[System: Analytical Mind Active]
[Processing: Eastern Province Trade Ledger #402]
[Hidden Pattern Detected: 3% discrepancy in Spirit-Silk exports. Source: Elder Hrolf.]
"Interesting," Jett whispered, his thumb tracing the edge of a jade-encrusted scroll. "Elder Hrolf is skimming off the top to fund his third wife's gambling habit, or he's building a private militia. Given the fashion sense in this province, I'm betting on the militia.
He made a tiny, almost invisible mark on the corner of the scroll. It was his new hobby he called: mapping the "Concord of Chaos." Every letter he organized was a piece of a puzzle that the Vane family seemed too arrogant to solve.
"You've been staring at that ledger for six minutes, Jett. Are you waiting for the numbers to apologize for being boring?"
Jett didn't jump." He slowly turned to see Sera standing by the doorway. She was dressed for a formal mediation, her white robes glowing with a faint, crystalline frost that made the air in the room feel like a walk-in freezer.
"Actually, Sera, I was just contemplating the existential crisis of the number seven," Jett replied, leaning back and giving her a smile that was exactly ten percent too smug. "It's prime, it's lonely, and it's currently the amount of Spirit-Stone shipments Elder Hrolf has 'lost' in the last month. Truly a tragic digit."
Sera stepped into the room, the temperature dropping with every footfall. Her ice-blue eyes scanned his desk, lingering on the way he had categorized the scrolls. "You've organized them by threat level, not by date or clan. That is... unconventional."
"Well, time is a social construct, but a dagger in the back is very much a physical reality," Jett said, tapping his temple. "I figured the Matriarch would prefer to know who is planning to burn the house down before she checks who sent a thank-you note for the winter solstice."
Sera looked at him, and for a second, the PR-C flickered.
[Target: Sera Vane]
[Compatibility: 87%]
[Status: Annoyed / Highly Suspicious]
[Bond Progress: 3% (Micro-increase via shared cynicism)]
"You act as though you understand this world," Sera said, her voice dropping to that dangerous, brittle tone he was starting to enjoy. "You have no Prana. You have no standing. You are a scribe who survived a lucky accident. Why do you look at these documents like they are a game board?"
"Because, my dear icy wife, everything is a game when you realize the rules are written by people who are just as terrified as you are," Jett said, standup up and walking toward her. He stopped just outside her personal "freeze-everyone" zone. "Your mother is playing chess. The Council is playing go. And I? I'm playing the long-form version of 'Don't Get Executed.' but I'm a world-class player."
Sera's eyes narrowed. "My mother gave you a task. She did not give you permission to outsmart yourself."
"Cleverness is a side effect of not wanting to die, Sera. Jett quipped.
He lowered his voice, the sarcasm fading just enough to be noticeable. "I saw the report on the Western trade routes. The Raven-Spire Clan isn't just sending poisoned wine. They're buying up all the Aether-Stabilizing salts in the Canton."
Sera's breath caught. It was a tiny sound, a microscopic fracture in her frozen mask.
"What?
"If I were a betting man and I am, considering I married into this family I'd say they're trying to corner the market on the only thing that keeps high-tier cultivators from exploding during a breakthrough," Jett said, returning to his desk and picking up another scroll.
"It's a very specific move. Almost like they know someone important is having... stability issues."
Sera moved so fast he didn't even see her blur. Suddenly, her hand was on the desk, inches from his fingers. The wood beneath her palm began to frost over. "If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting..."
"I'm suggesting that your mother's study is a very lonely place to keep secrets," Jett said, looking her directly in the eye. "And I'm suggesting that if you want to make it to the Canton Festival without turning into a very expensive ice sculpture, you might want to stop treating your husband like a piece of furniture and start treating him like the only guy in this building who isn't trying to sell your Aether channels for scrap metal."
Sera stared at him, her chest heaving slightly. The PR-C hummed, a resonant pulse that Jett felt in the marrow of his bones. He could feel her fear, a cold, sharp needle of anxiety buried under layers of Duke Estate pride.
"You are a disgrace, Jett Voland," she whispered, though the bite was gone from her words.
"Yes, but I'm a disgraceful strategist. That's a significant upgrade from 'useless son-in-law,'" Jett countered.
He reached out and, with a boldness that his system flagged as [Extreme Risk/High Reward], he gently tapped the back of her hand. The PR-C flared gold for a microsecond
.
[Bond Progress: 4%]
[Internal Commentary: She didn't freeze your hand off. Progress!]
Sera yanked her hand back as if burned, her face a mask of confusion and emerging fury. Before she could speak, the heavy doors at the end of the hall groaned. The Matriarch was returning.
Sera turned on her heel, her white robes snapping like a whip. "Do not think this changes the relationship between us, Jett. You are still just a merchant's son."
"And you're still a glacier in a sundress, and my wife, but we all have our crosses to bear," Jett muttered as she vanished into the shadows.
He turned back to his desk, his Analytical Mind already jumping to the next scroll. He had mapped the Raven-Spire Clan, he had identified the Elder's embezzlement, and he had just successfully flirted with a woman who could end his bloodline with a thought.
"Right," Jett said, his inner monologue reaching a fever pitch of sarcastic triumph. "Letters organized, wife thoroughly annoyed, and a political conspiracy uncovered before lunch. If this keeps up, I'll have to start a union for abused transmigrators."
But as he opened the next scroll, his smile died. It was a private missive addressed to Lyra, sealed with the crest of the Canton Council.
[Warning: High-Level Detection]
[PR-C Analysis: Missive contains a tracking seal. Opening will alert the Council.]
Jett stared at the wax seal. "Well," he whispered. "It seems the Council wants to know exactly who is reading the Matriarch's mail. Time to see if I can play the postman from hell."
He reached for a blank piece of parchment and a razor, his mind already spinning a web of misinformation that would make a master spy weep.